I See Fire
by Feyna
Summary: America would have never wanted to hurt his little brother, but he has duties to his people, and Canada is a mere casualty in his conflict with England. With York ablaze, America and Canada learn the hard way that a Nation has no control over the actions of men. A year later, in Washington, they must face the consequences. (War of 1812; ACE Family)
1. April 1813, York

**Notes : **This _isn't_ meant to be a historical fic. I cannot stress this fact enough. I simply took inspiration from some historical events to write a story centred around America, Canada, England and their bond, but I've been pretty busy lately, so I didn't have time to do extensive research. There are probably a lot of inaccuracies, I apologize for this, but this story wouldn't stop bugging me, so I ended up writing it anyway. I hope some of you may enjoy it.

The rating is because of depictions of injuries, I don't know if it qualifies as graphic or not, but there is a seriously injured character, so keep this in mind if this may bother you.

 **Disclaimer : **I don't own anything except for my laptop, nor do I get any profit from writing this. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, the cover picture is from フジッコ ( pixiv member id=284196)

* * *

 **April 1813, York**

Fire was all he could see. There was fire, fire everywhere, engulfing the houses, tinging the black of the night with its ominous glow, filling the air with pillars of dark, thick smoke. Above the crackle of wood and flames, a cacophony of screams resounded from all around him – he could hear the shrill voices of mothers crying for their children, their husbands, their pleas mixing with the agonizing screams of the wounded – and, above all, the exalted cheers and raucous laughter of the soldiers. His soldiers. His people. _Animals._

America felt sick to his stomach. His fists and jaw were clenched so tightly that they almost hurt, but he could barely realize it. He wanted to scream – _to cry, to plead, he had never wanted any of that! –_ but he knew none of his actions would be effective.

So many times – _too many times –_ he had tried to stop some of his soldiers from going on with that exultant atrocity, and each of them the ones who had stopped were replaced by countless others. There was no way to stop them, no way to curb that madness, that rage that burned in their veins, polluted their minds, commanded their hands.

America wanted to fall to his knees and burst into tears, to curl up on himself and let his mind be swallowed by the cold, dark embrace of sleep, to wake up and find himself still in his tent, covered in cold sweat but finally able to let out the breath he was holding as he realized that it had only been a horrible nightmare.

Yet, he couldn't. For it wasn't a nightmare, but reality – a reality he had never even imagined he would have to face.

He could feel the heat of the fire caressing his skin, drying the beads of sweat that ran down his temples and back, curbing away the edges of what would have been a cold night, the acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils, wormed its way into his raw throat, almost choking him – America was wheezing and coughing, and he stumbled to avoid some falling debris, but he never stopped.

A cacophony of voices was dancing all around him, the young nation could distinctly hear somebody call out for him – a cheering, raucous shout, some soldiers of his – but he barely registered it, and didn't answer back, his mind and body pushing against the exhaustion, every inch of his resources focused on the action of _running_.

He wouldn't – _couldn't –_ stop until he found _him._

America's first instinct had been to call out for him, but nothing had answered his screams, and it had been stupid anyway, what if one soldier of his noticed?

Normally, America would have been confident that nobody would question his commands, but that had been before. Before he had seen them laugh and sneer as he angrily screamed at them to stop, before they had completely ignored his orders, before he had seen their eyes shining with a glint of madness and their features deformed by manic grins.

 _(And he couldn't call out. Until America didn't call out, he wouldn't answer, but that was logical. Because he hadn't heard America's voice. But what if America kept calling his name and the only answer was the crackle of fire? What if what if what if…)_

Deep in his mind, America knew that he was still alive. He would have felt it if he weren't.

( _Right? Right?! They weren't as connected as before but that didn't mean America wouldn't notice he was to disappear, did it? Did it?!)_

He was still alive. It was going to be all right, as long as America could reach him and drag him away from that burning, infernal madness. Alfred still had a chance to make things right.

 _'I'm coming. Just hold on a little longer, I'm coming,'_ he pleaded desperately, forcing the tired, tight muscles of his legs to keep moving, to ignore the discomfort. _'Hold on. I'm almost there, just hold on until then.'_

York burned, and Alfred F Jones, the personification of the United States of America, kept running, deaf to the many voices that called out his name.

It was almost dawn when America finally found what he had been looking for.

It was a dark, shadowed alley near the building of the Legislative Assembly, and some falling beams from a nearby house had almost completely blocked the entrance, which was probably why none of the soldiers had noticed him before. America himself, at that point swaying with exhaustion, with his breath coming out in rapid pants and every inch of his body burning, would have probably overlooked it, but _something –_ he couldn't have told what, maybe the residual of a bond – had prompted him to stop for a moment, scanning with more attention the shapes hidden behind the still sizzling wood.

And that was when he saw it.

A small form lay curled up on himself on the ground, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly against his abdomen, the slight body engulfed in a tattered and burned red coat.

America stopped dead, his eyes widening and his breath caught in his throat as he took in Canada's appearance.

"M—Mattie?" he whispered tentatively, his voice so faint that it didn't even carry out above the gentle crackle of the residual flames.

His little brother didn't give out any sign of having heard him – in fact, he didn't show any hint of movement at all. Canada's body stayed as still as death, the faint glow of dying embers casting an ominous light on his matted strawberry blond hair and candid skin.

America wanted to run to him, to reach him and shake him until his little brother's eyes finally opened, as lively as ever, his lips curling into a small grin as he laughed at how effective his joke had been, and Alfred would be so furious at him for worrying him like that, but he would finally laugh along, ruffling Canada's soft hair… – but his feet were frozen on the spot. For as much as America tried to convince himself otherwise, he knew that Canada wasn't faking it. He wasn't moving. America couldn't see his face, he wasn't even sure if he was _breathing_.

Suddenly, Canada's body gave a lurch, and the boy curled on himself even tighter.

The movement finally wrenched America out of his shock, spurring him into action.

"Mattie!" he called, louder this time, vaulting over the fallen beams to reach the small body.

He dropped to his knees next to his brother, his eyes immediately scanning for injuries. Canada's hair was stuck to his head, matted with blood and soot, and the colony's once pristine uniform was torn in places and burned in others. The white pants hid nothing of the damage, America could clearly see the many burns littering his little brother's thin legs. There was a deep cut on his left thigh that was still sluggishly oozing blood, tendrils of scarlet lazily blossoming over the light fabric. But that wasn't the worst injury – it couldn't be, the ground around Canada's body was splattered with splashes of red – _bloodstains –_ and it was so much, too much to come from the injured leg… Canada's coat was torn on his lower back, revealing a large gash, but it didn't look that deep, it couldn't have bled out that much. Even though America's eyes kept frantically sweeping over his brother's body, he couldn't see where the blood was coming from, the red coat hid all too well its colour, and from the way Canada was curled up on himself his abdomen was hidden from America's view.

"Mattie! Mattie, come on, look at me, open your eyes…" America pleaded, his hands moving carefully around Canada's shoulders to turn him over.

The boy looked unconscious, his eyes were tightly shut, but his features were contorted in agony. The tracks carved by the tears showed the pale, almost translucent skin underneath all the smears of blood and dirt. There was a gash on the boy's right temple, blood had trickled from it to Canada's chin, pooling on the ground, and other thin rivulets of blood oozed from Canada's nose and from the corner of his lips.

 _(He must have bitten the inside of his cheek from the pain. Or his tongue. Oh Lord let it be that. Because if it wasn't…)  
_ "Mattie, Mattie, please answer me, look at me…" America whispered weakly, his trembling fingers clumsily pressing against random spots on Canada's neck as they looked for a pulse.

He finally found it, but it was weak, far too weak, and so fast and irregular…

America had to choke back a sob.

"Mattie, please!"

His left hand went to tug at Canada's arms, trying to dislodge them from his abdomen to see the damage ( _was that blood coating his little brother's forearms? Oh God he couldn't see, there wasn't enough light, and so much red, far too much red…)_ as his other arm slid under Canada's upper body to lift it from the ground.

The action finally elicited an answer from his little brother.

The boy yelped in pain, the lines on his face tightening as he fought weakly against America's hands.

" _Ça fait mal,_ " **(It hurts)** he whimpered feebly, " _Ça fait tellement mal…_ " **(It hurts so much…)**

America felt sick to his stomach. While he couldn't understand Canada's words, their meaning was far too clear. And he hadn't heard his little brother revert to French in such a long time… he had never done it, actually, unless he had been delirious or half-asleep.

"Mattie, it's me," America said, his voice shaking. "Come on, Mattie, look at me, it's all right…"

It was probably the biggest lie he had ever told.

At the same moment, America finally managed to wrench Canada's arm from his abdomen – not that it was that difficult, Canada was so weak… – and he gasped, his eyes widening.

There was a lot of blood, so much blood… the coat was so red, he was sure there was a cut, or maybe a bullet wound, but he couldn't tell _where_ , there was too much blood and not enough light…

Canada's arms snapped back in their place as the boy curled again in a ball – but this time, facing America.

The teen realized that in his shocked stupor he had loosened his hold on his brother's arms.

"Mattie!" he pleaded again, almost sobbing as he gathered Canada's broken body against his chest. "Oh, Mattie, look at me, please!"

The boy's body was so _tiny_ compared to his, so _fragile_ … It made America think he could shatter it with a mere touch of his fingers. How old was Matthew? He had been thirteen when America had left… Had he grown up at all since then? From the way his body felt against America's chest, he didn't think so. _Thirteen years old_. Still so young… a child _._ The broken, battered body America was holding in his arms belonged to a _child_. A child who had to endure those horrible injuries, so much pain…

America's arms unconsciously tightened around his brother's frame as a sob bubbled up his throat. He felt sick, his head spinning mercilessly, and his eyes were glued to Canada's waxen face.

Finally, Canada's eyelids fluttered as the boy let out another whimper and tried to curl up on himself.

"M—Mattie?" America coaxed him, gently laying a hand against his brother's dirty and too hot cheek. "Come on, Mattie, wake up. Talk to me!"

He had _tried_ to sound gentle and soothing, but ultimately failed to curb the panicked edge that could be heard in his voice.

Canada moaned again as his lids finally slid open, revealing the hazy lilac eyes underneath. America wanted to cry in relief, but he managed to restrain himself from doing so, his mind focused on what was most important at the moment – making his little brother comfortable.

"Yes, that's it, Mattie," he cooed, "Look at me."

His hand instinctively rose to sweep back the child's bangs, but he stopped himself mid-air – he still didn't know the full extent of Canada's injuries, he didn't want to hurt him with a misplaced touch.

Canada's pupils roamed around before his eyes managed to focus on America's face.

The older boy's lips curled into a relieved smile, his drawn face relaxing, and he opened his mouth to speak – when Canada let out a scream.

Actually, it was more like a raw whimper, it was as if the boy didn't even have enough strength left to scream, but it still startled America, almost leading him to drop the body in his arms as he started struggling weakly.

Immediately, America tightened his hold, effortlessly restricting the desperately flailing limbs – he couldn't help but notice how _easy_ that was. Canada had never been as strong as America was, but at that moment, even a human would have been able to restrain him.

"Mattie, stop struggling, you're too badly hurt!" America cried, alarmed. "It's me, I won't hurt you!"

As soon as the words left his mouth he realized his mistake.

Canada's eyes widened. In spite of the pain, a sneer distorted his feature.

"You… you won't hurt me?" he spat out. His voice was raw and weak, it sounded like his throat was damaged, but it still managed to convey all his hostility. "Because… what you have been doing… kinda… tells… something different…"

He had stopped struggling, however. Maybe because he didn't have enough strength to do so.

For a moment, it was as if everything stood still – America's heart stopped beating, all the colour draining from his face as he stared into his little brother's accusatory eyes.

"M—Mattie," he stuttered, "Mattie, please, I didn't…"

He had never wanted any of that. He had invaded Canada, sure, but that had been to get back at England, he had never wanted to hurt his little brother… but the facts told a different story. No matter what his intentions had been, now it was Canada's body that lay injured in his arms as York was being burned to the ground.

"I didn't want this, Mattie!" America sobbed, his stomach churning with guilt.

He was going to throw up – he was sure he was going to throw up, his little brother was so badly injured that he could barely speak, and it was all his fault, all on him…

Canada's eyes widened a bit, America could see fury glimmering in his lilac irises.

"Then… why?" he spat out. Still angry, but there was an edge of despair in his too weak voice. "Why did you—"

He suddenly stopped talking as his body convulsed, another raw scream was torn from his lips.

"Matthew!" America called out, panicked, trying to hold his little brother still, to prevent him from hurting himself. "Mattie, what's wrong?!"

No matter what he did, however, Canada wouldn't answer. His face was scrunched in pain, he tried to curl into a ball as his breaths came out in shallow gasps before turning into coughs. They were deep, wet coughs, horribly raspy, and America cried out because he didn't think Canada was getting enough air, he wouldn't stop coughing…

 _Focus. Focus!_

Feeling oddly detached, like he was watching the scene from the outside, America lifted Canada's upper body, a hand supporting his neck as he tilted his head back, trying to open his airways.

"Come on, Mattie, breathe…" he said, trying to force his breathing to a regular pattern so that his brother could follow him.

There was no way to slow down his thundering heart, however.

Something wet sprayed on his cheek.

Blinking, America raised a shaking hand to sweep it away, and found himself staring uncomprehendingly at a bright red liquid smeared over his fingers.

 _'Blood,'_ his mind supplied numbly.

Canada was coughing up blood.

America's eyes widened as the realization finally hit him.

"Mattie!" he cried in panic, immediately lowering his brother on his side so that he wouldn't choke.

Droplets of blood rained on the ground as Canada kept coughing, struggling for breath.

The coughs finally died down, leaving the child panting, his lips waxen where they weren't stained with crimson. There were tears shining at the corners of his tightly shut eyes, agony was etched in every feature of his contorted face.

"Mattie! Mattie!" America kept calling him, his hands hovering over Canada's wheezing body.

He wanted to help him, to hold him close and cry until everything magically went right, but the still rational part of his mind told him that none of that was going to happen. Not right then.

Swiftly, he gathered the small body against his chest, muttering an apology when the movement elicited a pained whimper. Canada's breaths sounded wet and raspy, the air grating against his throat.

"Why?" muttered the boy, his half-lidded eyes struggling to focus on America. "So many people… they're d-dying… Why, Alfred?"

America felt something shatter inside his chest.

"I—I don't know, Mattie…" he whispered shakily, his eyes never leaving his brother's drawn face. "Believe me, they weren't supposed to do that, they were only supposed to take the city, they shouldn't have…"

"They're burning _houses_!" his brother sobbed, his features contorted in a grimace. "They—"

He stopped as another wave of agony washed over him, eliciting a pained gasp from his throat.

America tightened his hold around him, burying his face against Canada's hair. The smell of smoke and iron filled his nostrils. It was so _wrong_. Matthew's soft hair had always smelled good, a light, flowery scent that was almost girlish, Alfred had teased him so many times about it….

"I never wanted any of this, Mattie. Please, believe me. I would have never fought you if I could have avoided it, I…"

 _'I'm fighting Canada, not you. You're still my little brother.'_ He wanted to say, but the words never left his mouth. Because they didn't mean anything, did they? He was America. And for how much Alfred could care for Matthew, there was nothing he could do if his people decided to attack Canada.

Alfred could feel the bile rise to the back of his throat. He had prided himself in being strong, a young nation that had managed to defy an Empire… but what good was his strength, if he couldn't even stop lowly soldiers from hurting his little brother?

Canada whimpered again, but America could feel his slight body finally release the tension, curling against America's chest instead of fighting against his hold.

A small hand closed over the fabric of his coat, its grip so weak that it was barely more than a feather's touch.

"Al, it hurts so much… Make it stop…" Canada moaned feebly, burying his head against America's collarbone.

The older nation could feel hot tears dampening his uniform.

It was hard to breathe, it felt like a heavy weight had settled on his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs, his vision was blurry. America blinked, something wet and hot trickled down his face. Only then the boy realized he was crying.

"Mattie, I'm sorry," he whimpered, his arms tightening their hold on the smaller form. "I can't stop them, Mattie. I'm so, so sorry…"

Canada was badly injured because of him, and he had no way to go back, to repair the damage. There was nothing Alfred could do except for holding his little brother, rocking his small body back and forth and whispering apologies mixed with useless words of comfort as the child writhed in agony, fading in and out of consciousness.

All around them, York was ablaze, a cacophony of screams of sorrow and exultance rose to the sky as the relentless flames ate everything on their path, but America barely realized any of it. The only thing he could focus on was the weight of the too hot body in his arms, the small fingers clutching the fabric of his uniform, blood and tears soaking through his coat as his own tears ran down his cheeks and dripped on his brother's hair.

America couldn't have told how much time had passed – it felt like a whole century, but maybe it wasn't more than a few minutes – when a deafening bang jerked him back to reality. He felt the bullet zip next to his left ear before hitting one of the beams at his shoulders.

"Step away from him!" a hoarse voice shouted at the same time.

America straightened, his muscles ready to jump, clutching Canada to his chest.

England was standing at the other end of the alley, the rising sun at his shoulders, as tall and fierce as America had ever seen him. The red coat was floating behind him, stirred by the wind, his face was bloodless and stony, the lips pressed into a thin line, his lime green eyes bright with rage under the knitted eyebrows. His gloved hands were steady as they clutched the rifle, pointing it at America.

"This was a warning shot. Next one goes through your head. Step. Away. From. Him."

America didn't doubt his words for a second. His voice was as cold as ice, the voice of the British Empire, America could feel the power behind those words, the same raw power that had had him tremble when he had first challenged England. There was no doubt that England could have killed him right then and there if he had chosen to. America wasn't even armed, his rifle had been dismissed hours before when it had hindered his run.

At the same time, Alfred couldn't help the wave of relief that washed over him, so intense that it made his head spin. Quickly, he detached Canada's fingers ( _so weak, far too weak)_ from his coat and placed the small body on the ground. The young boy immediately curled up on himself, his face contorted in agony.

"Help him," Alfred gasped as he scrambled back on his hands and heels, scraping his palms on the rough terrain. "Please, you have to help him!"

The tears prickling at the corner of his eyes and the despair lacing his voice made America look far younger than he was, but for once he didn't care about showing himself vulnerable to England. Arthur was their older brother. While they were at odd ends right then, he had always cared about him, and it was the same for Matthew. He wouldn't let him die.

England snorted, but after a quick glance at America he dismissed the threat posed by the boy and lowered his rifle. With a few, swift steps the man closed the distance between him and Canada.

"Should have thought about it sooner, shouldn't you?" he sneered as he knelt by Canada, taking out his gloves.

In spite of England's harsh words and stony expression, America couldn't miss the slight tremble of his hands as they carefully cupped his colony's face, feeling for a pulse.

America's stomach plummeted as the lines around England's eyes tightened.

"You can fix him, can't you?!" he pleaded, "He's _your_ colony. Your responsibility. Do s _omething_!"

England raised his head, his blazing eyes focusing on America.

"So _now_ you worry, don't you?" he said tartly, "What do you think, that I can magically rebuild this city, revive all the people who died? The mere fact that he's my colony doesn't mean I can do anything to heal him! If you—"

Canada stirred, whimpering something, his voice so feeble that America couldn't make out his words. Provided that he had even said something of sense.

England immediately dismissed America, all his attention shifting to his young colony. His hands gently petted the boy's hair as he whispered soothing words. America felt like he was watching a completely different person. Now England's – _Arthur's –_ voice was soft, his expression tender as he tried to comfort Canada. He would have looked completely calm, in control of the situation, if it weren't for a tightness that wouldn't leave his eyes.

America felt his chest tighten, the lump in his throat so heavy that he could barely breathe.

He watched as England placed his right hand on his brother's forehead and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. His hand seemed to take a faint green glow as he murmured foreign words – and suddenly, Canada's body relaxed, going completely limp.

A keening, panicked wail erupted from America's throat as the boy tried to scramble to his feet, but England's sharp eyes snapped back to him, leaving him frozen in a half-crouch, his muscles tight and ready to jump.

"Stop with your ridiculous antics," snapped the older nation, "He's not dead. I've simply made him unconscious, he was in too much pain, but it won't last for long."

America nodded mutely, falling to his knees. His heart was hammering in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears.

"He's… he's going to be okay, isn't he?" he asked in a small voice, desperately searching a reassurance in England's eyes.

His older brother offered him none.

"I don't think he's going to _die_ , if this is what you're worrying about," he said icily, his face contorted in a mask of contempt. "As for the rest, you can see with your own eyes. 'Okay'? You are burning his capital to the ground. How can you be that oblivious? Of course it's going to hurt him, you bloody git! And he's only a colony, not a full-grown nation, he's not as strong as we are! How could you have ever thought that it wouldn't affect him?!"

America flinched at England's harsh words.

"But I… They weren't supposed to do that!" the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. "We were only supposed to take the city… We _did_ take the city, it was supposed to be easy, but then there was the explosion… a lot of people died, they were so angry… I never ordered to burn the houses! They weren't supposed to hurt people, really, they weren't! But… But… _they won't stop_! I don't know why they're doing that, I've _tried_ to stop them, but they won't listen! Please, what I am supposed to do? I don't want Mattie to keep hurting! How can I stop them?!"

During America's desperate monologue, England's expression had shifted subtly from rage to something that America couldn't identify. He was still furious, but there was also a glint of something else in his eyes… something that looked oddly like _regret_.

"People won't always listen to you, America," he said gravely, looking straight at America's wide and tear-filled eyes. "You can give orders, but they aren't bound to them. You're their nation, so they will unconsciously respect you more than they would respect a normal man, no matter his rank, but ultimately, the decision is theirs. You can influence them, but you can't decide for them. And sometimes, it is you who has to bend to their will."

"But… my people are good people!" America retorted desperately, uncomprehendingly – refusing to comprehend the implication of England's words. "I know them, I've talked to them, they wouldn't hurt innocent people, why won't they listen when I tell them to stop?!"

England exhaled deeply, his eyes dropping to Canada's limp form. America suddenly noticed the deep bags that marked the skin under his eyes, the greyish pallor that wasn't only due to his natural fair complexion. He hadn't seen England look so tired and frail since the Revolutionary War.

"People do horrible things in war, Alfred. Even good people can turn into monsters, at the right opportunity."

America violently shook his head, desperately trying to deny England's assessment. Deep in his heart, however, he knew those words to be true.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" he whispered, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "I don't want to hurt Matthew. He's my little brother."

The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

"Withdraw your men," England said sharply, "It's the only way you can prevent them from going on with this."

The man clearly considered the conversation concluded and rose to his feet, gently cradling Canada to his chest.

America didn't try to stop England as he turned his back to him and started to walk away, his steps slow and carefully measured to avoid hurting Canada. He wanted to call out his brother, to cry and apologize, but Canada desperately needed medical attention, and England was hopefully going to provide to that.

America could only stare at England's retreating back as tears ran freely down his face. He could see Canada's small, bloodied hand flapping uselessly against the man's coat, completely limp. Everything in that picture oozed _wrongness_.

At least, when he had finally defeated England, his former caretaker had been on his own two feet, tired and dejected but still _alive_. Still ready to fight.

America had just won the battle, but he didn't think he had ever felt that empty in his whole life.

* * *

Pain was everywhere – pain was everything he could feel, everything he had ever felt, it was all-consuming, swallowing him in his clutches, trapped in a feverish limbo of agony. Every breath he drew sent hot spires of agony through his ribcage, like a knife digging deeper and deeper into his lungs, the air felt like needles scraping against the walls of his throat, burning, searing, every single nerve in his body screamed in agony, he wished he would pass out, he could stop feeling, but each time the excruciating pain brought him back to the brink of consciousness.

He could feel a fire relentlessly burning, consuming everything in its path, wood, earth, grass, people – he could hear them scream in pain, beg for mercy as the unrelenting flames extinguished their lives like feeble candles to the wind. He wanted to reach out for them, to help them, but his body was burning as well, consumed by the flames, drowning in an endless pit of agonized cries.

Canada was screaming, begging for the pain to stop, he was sure he would die or go crazy, there was no way he could endure that much pain, his lungs couldn't get enough air, he knew he wasn't going to last another moment, and at the same time he begged for the cold embrace of death, to fade into the nothingness that would have stopped the pain.

But he never did. Little by little, the flames started dying out, leaving charred ruins in their wake. The pain in Canada's body never faded, there was still sorrow, still fire burning in his veins, but now he could also feel something else, gentle fingers threading through his hair, blissfully cold hands caressing his burning skin, a cool, damp cloth on his forehead, and, above the screams, a smooth, soothing voice was singing a lullaby. Canada realized that one of his small hands was tightly clasped in a bigger, rougher one. The touch hurt, but at the same time the boy found himself drawing strength from the contact, the hand anchored him to reality, tearing him away from the ghosts of the burning city. Finally, Canada sank into the cold, peaceful oblivion of sleep.

The next time Canada woke up, it was to a dull pain that enveloped his whole body, trapped under heavy, constricting blankets. Even breathing was a struggle, his mouth felt parched and papery, and his throat raw, tender, the passing of the air hurting it. He moaned, his head rolling to a side as he tried to make sense of where he was and why everything was aching so much.

A big, scarred hand gently squeezed his left hand. England?

 _Why is he here? Why is he holding my hand?_

"I only wish you would wake up," said a tired, hollow voice. "Even for a single moment… just long enough to be sure that you're going to heal. But that's quite selfish of me, isn't it? You'd just be in pain if you were awake."

Yes, that was definitely England, Canada would recognize his smooth voice anywhere. His words didn't make any sense, however.

"Mr England?" Canada forced himself to ask.

Talking turned out to be surprisingly hard, his voice came out raspy and feeble, and the action brought an unexpected pang of pain to his throat.

England's hand, however, tightened over his.

"Matthew?! Can you understand me? Are you truly awake this time?"

His voice was oddly gentle, but at the same time laced with urgency. His free hand landed softly on Canada's cheek, then slid down to cup his face.

Canada reflexively squeezed back England's hand as he tried to pry his eyes open. Again, the action was far more difficult than it should have been, his lids were like lead, and he had to blink several times before his surrounding came into focus, outlining England's face leaning over him.

Canada gasped, unconsciously recoiling at the sight. England looked _horrible_. His wheat blond hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, and deep lines were etched in his drawn face. The man's pallid skin had taken a greyish hue, and his eyes looked dull and tired under his knitted brow.

"Mr England, what are you doing here?" the boy fretted as his mind conjured the picture of England's sick body after losing the Revolutionary War. He didn't look that bad yet, but from his appearance, Canada could bet he wasn't far from collapsing. And the last thing he wanted was to repeat the experience.

"You should be resting! You'll get sick again, you—"

Canada shifted, trying to brace himself on his elbows to sit up, but an excruciating wave of pain seared through his midsection at the movement. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, instinctively trying to curl up on himself to get relief from the pain, but England clasped firmly his shoulders, holding him still.

"Matthew! Don't move. Just focus on breathing."

After some almost unbearably long moments of agony, the pain receded to a throbbing in Canada's abdomen. It didn't completely fade and was still too strong to be ignored, but Canada could breathe again, his body relaxing slightly in utter exhaustion. The boy forced himself to open his eyes, blinking away the tears that were prickling at the corners.

Above him, England exhaled in relief.

"You shouldn't strain yourself, you have been very ill," he explained in the same soft voice he had used before. "You slept for three days. But it's all right now."

"Oh…" was all Canada could mutter.

England's words made sense, he was still feeling awful, barely hanging onto consciousness. A pang of guilt blossomed through his stomach at the thought of upsetting England so much, yet… he couldn't help but feel that there was something more to it.

"What—"

England shushed him, a hand on his lips.

"It's all right now," he repeated, smoothing back his hair. "Don't worry about anything. You still need a lot of rest, but you're going to be all right."

His voice was soothing and his words gentle, but Canada didn't miss the slight tremble in his hands, a cold glint in his eyes. England was lying, there was something wrong.

He didn't have the chance to ask again, however. England detached his hand from his hold and slipped it under Canada's neck, lifting his head. A moment later, a glass was pressed against the boy's lips.

"Drink," said England.

Canada took a small sip. The water was cold, relieving his mouth from the papery feeling, but it seemed to scrape against the walls of his throat when he swallowed, and the boy finished the glass only because England kept urging him to do so. He felt dizzy and weak, every inch of his body screaming in pain, but he was also becoming gradually aware that England had lied to him. He wasn't sick, or better, not only. He had been injured, he could feel bandages wrapped tightly around most of his body – arms, legs, his forehead, they felt particularly tight and heavy around his abdomen.

"Get back to sleep now," said England, "You need to regain your strength. I'll be here when you wake up."

In any other circumstances, Canada would have been overwhelmed by gratitude and affection at England's words, warmed up by his display of concern – but _this_ time was different. He was still grateful, whatever his motives were, England's attention was something to be treasured deeply, but… there was something wrong in the whole picture. Something England didn't want him to know, and Canada had a hunch that it was too important to ignore.

"Mr England, what happened? How did I get hurt?" he asked, and bit his lip to avoid apologizing for his boldness. He _knew_ that whatever was going on was too important for him to be stopped by his politeness.

England stiffened. He immediately recovered, his hands going to smooth the blankets that covered Canada's body.

"Don't worry about it, Matthew. You just need to focus on recovering, all right? Be a good boy and go back to sleep."

"No," Canada said stubbornly, pouting. He was exhausted, weak and in severe pain, he didn't feel like arguing with England, but he _needed_ to know, and he wasn't lucid enough to mind his words. "I need to know what happened. Please."

England's hands tightened over the sheets. He looked like he wanted to worry his lower lips with his teeth and was barely refraining himself from doing so.

"Please," Canada begged again, "Something bad happened, I know. I… I need to know it."

There had been fire in his feverish dreams, he recalled suddenly. Or had it been real?

"The fire…"

England's face became a mask of stone at his words, his whole body tensing.

"Matthew…"

"No!" Canada said again, tossing his head from side to side.

England's reaction seemed to confirm his worst fears, he wouldn't have tensed up like that if his words hadn't hit the mark. The fire had been real. The burning, all those people dying…

"Matthew, you need to calm down, you'll reopen your wounds!"

England's hands were clasping his shoulders too tightly, almost painfully, and there was a panicked edge in the man's voice.

Canada, however, couldn't listen to him, his mind focused on a desperate attempt to _remember_.

They had been at war against America, he recalled suddenly. He hadn't been happy about it, he could recall the weight sinking in his stomach when a stony-faced England had given him the announcement, but he had tried to hide his feelings from his caretaker. America had been winning, with most of England's forces occupied in Europe, Canada and his troops had to retreat further and further, and then…

The last memories hit Canada like a punch in the gut. A strangled cry bubbled up his throat as he frantically rolled to lean over the edge of the bed, violently retching.

England cried out in surprise and jumped up from his chair, his hands immediately going to support the boy, but Canada barely noticed it. His slight frame was shaken by the coughs, each one of his many injuries was screaming in agony, but the boy didn't realize it, his mind trapped in the infernal memories of the flames that had slowly engulfed the entire York. He could still feel their heat on his skin, the smell of the smoke impregnating his hair and clothes, a chorus of screams filling his ears, there was no escape from that, all he could do was watch, powerless, as his capital, his people, were burned to the ground, and he couldn't take a single breath, he was coughing and retching as smoke filled his lungs…

"Matthew! Listen to me, Matthew!"

England's voice suddenly breached through Canada's memories, bringing him back to the present. The boy suddenly became aware of England's hands, one clutching his shoulder, the other intertwined in his hair. There were tears running down his face and dropping to the ground, mixing with small scarlet beads. The coppery taste of blood was strong in Canada's mouth, and his lungs were tight, begging for air.

"Matthew, you have to breathe!" England's voice was urgent, panicked.

Canada felt sick, his stomach churning, but there was nothing else to throw up. He brought a shaky hand on top of England's, clutching at his fingers as hard as he could as he gasped for air, trying to breathe through the agony that engulfed his whole body.

"Why?" he sobbed as soon as he could speak again, weakly turning his head as he searched for England's eyes. "S—so many people… He—he burned down York…"

England sighed, briefly closing his eyes. Canada could see the grief written in the tight features of his face.

"I'm sorry, love…" he murmured, gently gathering Canada to his chest. One of his hands went to stroke Canada's hair as he started rocking gently back and forth. "I'm so sorry."

Canada clutched at his older brother's shirt, his body shaking as he tried to drown out his people cries, but he couldn't. Now that he remembered, there was no way to stop feeling their agony.

"How could he do this?" he moaned feebly.

England didn't answer, but his arms tightened around the smaller frame.

Canada wanted to hate America for what he had done to him, his people were screaming for revenge, wanting to see him suffer the same fate… and at the same time, Matthew realized that he couldn't hate Alfred. Fragmented echoes of memories were worming their way into his brain, a panicked voice calling out his name, arms holding him against a strong chest, tears dropping on his hair as his brother's voice apologized over and over among the crackle of the flames.

"He didn't have any choice," England said somberly, but his voice was heavy and laced with sorrow.

 _As I won't have, when the time comes._

Canada buried his head against his brother's chest, closing his eyes tightly, still trembling with pain and exhaustion. He wished he could go back to when he was still a little colony, playing with an overexcited America in the yard as England's eyes carefully watched each of their moves, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth at their antics. But those times were gone forever, and America's once smiling face was smeared with soot and blood and his eyes cold and dull.

In spite of England's arms wrapped around him, Canada felt cold.

 **(word count: 7,089)**

* * *

 **Notes : **

The first part is done. I'm not really sure of what I've written, and it's far longer than I had intended. Seriously, somebody should teach me how to be synthetic. There will be a second part, focusing on the burning of Washington.

The title is taken from Ed Sheeran's song for _The Desolation of Smaug_. While it doesn't exactly relate to this situation, the idea for this story hit me while I was listening to it.  
Another inspiration was _These Gates_ , a fancomic from TheLostHype. You can find it on Deviantart, it's not finished yet but I really recommend it, it's something amazing, both in the art and the storyline.

Lastly, English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any mistake you may find. Please tell me if you notice something, I'm trying to improve!

And please review and let me know what you think about this story in general! :)

 **EDIT!** I received a review complaining that Canada is the older between him and America. Now, my dear anonymous reviewer, I have a couple of things to say. First of all: while Canada's age _in modern times_ isn't established, during the war of 1812 he's younger than America _in canon_. I'd recommend you to have a look again at chapter 180, that explicitly portrays how America grew up faster than Canada due to his stronger economy and bigger political strength. After that, Canada was drawn significantly smaller than America until he obtained some independence, but the war of 1812 is previous to that, so he was still younger than America.

As for what England tells Canada, once again, I'd advise you to have another look at the chapter: England is visibly sweating and stuttering, he clearly didn't have any idea of what to say and blurted out the first thing he came up with. I wouldn't consider him reliable. What I would consider reliable, instead, is _the omniscient narrator_ that in the first panel of chapter 193 identifies America as Canada's older brother.

I also think that Canada should be younger than America in modern times because his economic and political strength never reached America's, and this could be debatable since Canada's age wasn't established in canon, but the point here is different.

I think I have sufficiently explained why I have written Canada as younger than Americain this story – just like _in canon_ during this period _–_ but for a more detailed and general explanation, you can have a look at my tumblr (feynavaley), I have a couple of posts about it (I also touched the early colonization aspect there). Either way, I'm going to keep writing Canada as the younger brother.


	2. August 1814, Washington

**Notes :** The warnings are the same as the previous chapter. This is most likely NOT accurate from a historical point of view, I apologize again.

Said that, thank you so much to everybody who read the first part, especially those who reviewed or marked this story as favourite/followed. I hope you enjoy this one too! :)

* * *

 **August 1814, Washington**

America stood at the outskirts of Washington, pale and wide-eyed.

He couldn't believe it, his mind refused to grasp the truth of the last hours, it had to be only a dream, an illusion… but it wasn't. As far as he could see, the streets crawled with men clad in crimson, not a single blue coat was in sight.

British soldiers commanded the streets of Washington.

America had lost.

In spite of all his efforts, the bravery of his men… he had lost.

His mind still couldn't fully grasp the concept, everything felt oddly empty and disconnected, he couldn't comprehend how such a thing could have happened, but somehow, it had.

There was nothing more to do, he had lost.

In the wake of England's last victory, everybody had fled, and his generals had tried to convince him to follow them, but America had vehemently refused. There was no way he would abandon his capital like that, he could still fight, he could still protect what was left…

Now he was starting to realize how pointless his choice had been. Was there anything at all he could do, after all? He was alone, a teenager boy standing in front of an army. Even if he could somehow beat England – which wasn't likely at the moment, he was still worn out from the last fight – he had no way to reverse history. No way to stop what was going to happen.

With sudden clarity, America understood that the only thing he could do was watch as the enemy soldiers carried out what they had been waiting for since the previous year – exacting their revenge.

America could feel the bile rise to the back of his throat, his head was spinning mercilessly.

He knew what was going to happen, and was powerless to stop it.

His muscles frozen and his throat dry, America could do nothing but stand in front of the city.

"Alfred."

The tired voice jerked him back to reality. America whirled back, startled, his hands closing automatically around the rifle.

"You won't need that," said England.

Like America, he was still wearing a dirty, tattered uniform, a bandage around his left arm marked the presence of a fresh injury and his hair looked even messier than usual. England's face was devoid of any emotion, but the pallor of his skin and purple bags under his eyes betrayed the heavy toll the last battle had taken from him and his men. In spite of that, the British Empire stood tall and proud, his shoulders squared, managing to look impressive despite his slight frame.

At his left side, slightly behind him, stood Canada.

America's heart missed a beat at the sight of his younger brother, his mind flashing back to the last time he had seen him, more than a year before – a limp, bloodied body in England's arms. In the present moment, the child's face was milky white and his lilac eyes unnaturally wide, he almost looked like he was about to faint, but he was standing straight, with his jaw clenched, trying to appear as strong and confident as his older brothers. His uniform, noticed America, was pristine, and there wasn't a single smudge of dirt or blood on his whole body. America mentally sighed in relief at that: as he had suspected a few hours before, when he hadn't glimpsed his little brother on the battlefield, England hadn't allowed him to join the fray. In spite of the resentment, he couldn't help but feel grateful to their older brother for that decision.

"I knew you wouldn't leave," said England, his voice forcefully neutral.

America shrugged as he put down the rifle.

"Of course not!" he boasted, grinning. "I won't leave my capital. I can take whatever comes!"

His voice sounded fake and strained even to his own ears. Could he truly? For how much America tried not to think about it, memories of Canada's agonized scream and contorted face kept popping up in his thoughts. He knew he was stronger than his little brother, being only a colony, Canada had been affected more badly than he would, but… was he really that strong that he could withstand so much pain without consequences?

England's features didn't relax.

"Just don't try to get into the city. There's nothing you can do to help."

America knew he was right, and that did nothing but exacerbate the pang of anger he felt against the older nation. He opened his mouth to speak, frowning – and a gasp was torn from his lips as an unexpected burst of pain flared up in his chest.

All the colour was drained from America's face as he instinctively clutched at his shirt, hunching over. His widened eyes frantically swept over the horizon, finally landing on a thin column of smoke that was starting to rise to the cloudless sky. The Capitol.

"It has started," England said sombrely, his eyes stubbornly trained on the city, avoiding to meet America's gaze.

"Yes, I can feel that!" America snapped, clenching his teeth as the pain in his chest intensified. How long was he going to last before collapsing?

"You bastard," he swore for good measure, trying to keep the pain at bay. "You've already won, what's the point of this?!"

England's face was bloodless, his eyes forcefully blank, America couldn't read him.

"You know why I'm doing this. You should have expected a retribution for your actions."

But there was no real strength in his voice, and his words sounded hollow.

America hissed. Rage was boiling in his veins along with the increasing pain, the rage of his people, the denial for his loss, he wanted to cuss out at England, to hurt him… but he couldn't. Partly because he wasn't strong enough, and partly because… well. In the back of his mind, Alfred couldn't help but think that he kind of deserved it. Of course, he didn't want his city to be destroyed, but… he _had_ burned down York. He desperately tried to deny it, but… he understood why England needed to do it.

"We're only burning government's buildings, anyway. I've made sure that none of the civilian houses will be touched."

America couldn't tell if it was England's way to reassure him, or if the man wanted to point out that it was still more than he deserved. He hadn't granted Canada the same courtesy, after all.

"Don't try to make me feel guilty," he snarled. The blood was pounding in his ears, making it difficult to think. "It won't work. I thought that a 'civilized' nation like you would be above the 'eye for an eye' mentality…"

A sudden burst of agony drove America to his knees, stealing the air from his lungs. He could feel the explosion resounding in his bones, his nerves screamed in pain as stones and wood started to crumble.

A small, keening wail had him raise his head – Canada.

The boy's eyes were huge, terror was glowing in his lilac irises. His right hand was clutching convulsively England's coat. The man placed a reassuring hand on Canada's shoulder, but America could see his fingers trembling slightly in spite of his forcefully blank expression.

America wanted to hate them – both of them, his people were crying with fear and rage as they watched the flames grow, while the red-clad soldiers cheered at their completely unnecessary action. They had already won, what was the point in humiliating him that way?

"Fuck you!" he spat out through his clenched teeth, desperately trying to breathe through the pain.

Canada whimpered again.

America wanted to curse at him, the boy was standing still and healthy as America's capital was being set ablaze, he had _no_ _right_ to feel sorry for himself. When his eyes fell on Matthew's bloodless face, however, he remembered. The horror, the helplessness he had felt as he had run through the burning city, desperately praying for his little brother to be still alive, the shocked denial at his soldiers' actions…

Now, Canada knew what his soldiers were up to. He had known for a while, he had time to prepare himself for the moment. But that didn't mean he had any more power than Alfred to stop his men's actions.

"Why did you bring him here?" America snarled at England, trying to keep the waves of pain at bay by talking. "He didn't need to see this!"

England's face was as pale as Canada's, almost translucent, but his expression was stony, numb. If America hadn't known better, he would have thought he felt no regret for what was happening. But he did know better. He remembered the way England had hesitated before pulling the trigger, granting him the chance to win. He remembered the tears soaking Arthur's face, disappearing among the raindrops.

Alfred wished he could hate him as pain flared up in every inch of his body. That would make everything so much easier…

Another explosion of agony washed over him, tearing a hoarse scream from his lips. America vaguely felt himself falling, his body lacking of the necessary strength to keep him upright. For a moment, his surroundings faded in a pulse of red agony.

When the pain decreased to a bearable level, America realized that he was lying on the ground, curled on his side. Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes. Somehow, with every inch of his will, he gritted his teeth and refused to let them fall.

Slim, delicate fingers brushed his bangs away from his forehead.

"I'm sorry," said Canada's soft voice.

The boy was kneeling next to him. Through the haze of tears, America could see his milky white face leaning over him. There were tears glimmering at the corners of his widened eyes, but his jaw was set in determination.

"I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean to hurt me in York, but… my men don't. They _need_ this retribution. I understand if you won't forgive me, but I will stay. There's nothing I can do to stop this, the least I can do is to stay."

America wanted to yell at him and grab the small fingers that were gently threading through his hair, snap them like twigs and hear Canada's raw scream of agony increase until they reached his.

Alfred wanted to plead Matthew to go away, to turn his eyes from the fire and devastation that were eating him. He didn't want his little brother to experience the same guilt and fear he had as he had held his burning body.

"Mattie…" he moaned through the pain, grabbing Canada's hand.

The child intertwined their fingers, squeezing lightly.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he kept murmuring, mirroring his brother's action of over a year before as he adjusted himself to cushion America's head with his thighs.

America buried his head against his little brother as fire coursed through his veins, reaching every inch of his body with searing waves of agony. There were tears dampening his face as he moaned in pain, and Canada's tears were dropping on his hair.

"I'm sorry," he could hear the boy whisper, "I'm so sorry."

Another hand, rougher and bigger, gently landed on his cheek.

America managed to turn his head to look at England. The man was crouching by them, his bloodless face set in determination.

"It's going to be all right, lad," he said.

The last thing America saw was a faint green glow, then his consciousness faded into darkness.

* * *

Canada was a coward.

There was no denying it, no sugar-coating. He _knew_ that he was a coward.

If he weren't, he wouldn't have problems with facing his brother. He wouldn't have felt relief blossom in his chest when England had kept him away from the battlefield. Of course, he had tried to protest, but that had been because he had been worried about England getting hurt so he wanted to be by his side, not because of an actual thirst for battle. Canada didn't like fighting, even less when his brother was involved. He so desperately wished that they could get along, stay together… but he was a nation. A nation shouldn't feel a weight closing off his stomach each time he saw the enemy's blood soak his hands. A nation had duties to his people. He knew that they had to hurt America, he knew that his people needed retribution for York and all the other horrors of the war. He shouldn't feel dread scratching at his insides each time he thought about hurting his older brother. This meant he was a coward, didn't it?

But even his cowardice had limits.

"We've already won. You don't have to see this," England said as Canada hastily bandaged his injured arm, a light wince on his face when the boy wrapped the white cloth a bit too tightly.

His voice was as smooth and reassuring as ever, but Canada knew him too well to be fooled by his words. The man's eyes looked dull, his smile was strained. Canada could tell that he didn't relish in what he was about to do – he would carry out his duty, because as a nation he had to, but he dreaded the moment he would have to hurt America. His favourite younger brother.

In spite of that, England was about to do that. For _him_. The least he could do was to be at his side, Canada thought as he tried not to think about what else his decision would imply.

"You can go away," England said a second time, gently, when they finally caught sight of America.

Canada's instinct told him to flee – but right then, he realized that there was another reason he had to stay.

America's shoulders were slumped, his skin paler than Canada remembered, and his uniform was in tatters, covered with mud and blood. He didn't look injured, but the sight of his usually so lively brother with such a defeated expression on his face made Canada's stomach twist.

America knew what was about to come. It wouldn't be as bad as York had been, both Canada and England had been irremovable at that, no civilians would be harmed, but it was still his capital. It was still going to hurt, and that was because Canada's men had decided that. Unlike America, he was fully aware of their resolution, and hadn't protested enough to stop them. He knew that they needed it… and in spite of that, the thought of hurting Alfred only brought terror into his mind.

He was a coward.

And the least he could do was to be there for Alfred, like his brother had at York.

However, Canada couldn't have even begun to imagine how hard it would be. Every time he watched his brother's face contort in agony, a fragment of his heart shattered. He would have done anything to make his pain stop, but could do nothing but apologize and stroke his brother's dirty hair. He had ever felt so utterly powerless and useless only one time before, at England's bedside in the aftermath of the Revolutionary War. But at least, that time it hadn't been his fault.

Even worse, part of Canada _relished_ in his brother's pain. He could feel his people's satisfaction as they watched their neighbour nation's humiliation, the sudden, dizzying rush of _power_ at the sight of the Capitol ablaze. It was inebriating, sickening, Canada wanted to claw at his skin and scream until the horrible, inhuman feeling was gone – but now he had to focus on Alfred's trembling body, on the hand that was clutching his so tightly that Canada feared his fingers would break. Part of him thought he would have deserved the pain.

When England used his magic to spare his brother from the pain, Canada felt almost dizzy with relief.

"Are holding on alright?" England asked softly, his eyes focused on the tears that soaked Canada's face. His own eyes glowered with regret.

Canada lowered his head in shame. It wasn't fair, England had so many things to worry about, and _America_ was the one in pain… England shouldn't have to worry for him.

"I'm fine," he lied, tightening his hold on his brother's limp hand with his left hand while he used the other to brush the tears from his cheeks.

England sighed tiredly. From his furrowed brow and still contracted features of his face, Canada could tell that England had seen right through his lie, but he didn't insist. He looked too tired to do so.

"We should bring him to a tent," he said instead, "I don't think this will keep him unconscious for long. It didn't for you, and he's a grown nation…"

 _'He's stronger than you,'_ Canada read in his sudden silence.

 _'But I'm not as strong as he is because I've chosen to stay by your side!'_ he wanted to scream, but clenched his teeth and kept his mouth shut. He knew that it was only a part of the issue – America would always be stronger, better, brighter. Especially in England's eyes. And the worst thing was – it was true. How could Canada even begin to compete with his energy, his vitality, the beaming smile and glowing eyes that had always managed to make the drawn features of England's face relax? He couldn't. For how much he tried, he would always be nothing but a pale imitation of his older brother, a defective replacement.

Canada sunk his teeth into his lower lip, drawing blood.

 _So selfish_. Coward and selfish. His brother was lying in his arms, starting to burn with fever, and he was busy feeling sorry for himself.

"I'll help you carry him," he said, trying to divert his mind from the conflicting whirlwind of emotions that were threatening to tear him apart. He had to be strong. For Arthur, and for Alfred.

England nodded tiredly. The fact that he didn't try to protest spoke volumes about how exhausted he was.

Together, they lifted America's body, groaning a little at the weight, and started carrying him to their camp. America didn't react at the movement, his head flopping uselessly against England's chest. His brother had never been so still, so silent, pale as a ghost. It was so _wrong_.

Canada felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to burst again into tears, but one glance at England's stony face, at his eyes dark with regret, made him realize that it wasn't the moment. England had already enough to worry about, besides – he didn't _deserve_ to be comforted.

Nobody stopped them as they neared England's tent, they all seemed to be busy watching Washington's demise. There was nowhere they could go to escape the loud cheering of the soldiers, however.

Canada's stomach was churning, his head spinning. He briefly wondered if that was how his brother had felt in York, he recalled his tears and the shaky arms holding him.

But it was worse, for America had no actual fault in his soldiers' actions, he didn't know what they would have done. Canada did. Canada did, and could only lower his brother's limp body on the cot, place a damp cloth on his forehead to try to lower the fever.

He wanted to burst into tears as America started tossing and turning on the sheets, moaning in pain – but England was watching them, his eyes dull and heavy with sorrow. Matthew couldn't let him see how broken he was.

So Canada swallowed the tears and clenched his free hand in a fist until he could feel his nails break the skin.

He wished he could be the one writhing in pain on the cot.

* * *

America could feel the fire coursing through his veins, his whole body burning as people screamed in fear and rage, as the soldiers cheered loudly watching their enemies humiliated. He wanted to crush them, to stop them from destroying with meticulous care everything he was so proud of, but all he could do was moan in pain as the agony ate every nerve of his body.

He wanted to be strong – he had _sworn_ to be strong – but couldn't stop the whimpers from seeping through his clenched lips as his body throbbed in tune with his too loud heartbeat.

Then came the water. It was only a few drops at first, a damp cloth placed by trembling, small hands on his forehead, but soon the wind gained strength and the flimsy raindrops turned into a storm. He trembled on his cot, clutching tightly a small hand, as the fury of the elements hit the city, drowning the fires and numbing the agony in his body. Finally, as the rain started to abate, he was able to fall asleep, lulled to unconsciousness by a gentle hand that kept soothingly running through his hair.

Later, America woke up to a morning sunray seeping in through the flaps of the tent to land on his face. He groaned, rolling on his side to try to ignore the discomfort and drift back to sleep, and that was when he suddenly realized that it wasn't his tent – the cot was harder than his.

America jerked to a sitting position, letting a blanket pool at his waist, suddenly completely awake. The abrupt movement brought a tingle of discomfort in his tired muscles, he was feeling unpleasantly sore the way he would if he had overexerted himself in training the previous day, but he didn't remember training. Or the previous day, actually.

A small whine at his left caught America's attention before he could examine the unfamiliar tent he was in.

Canada was curled on a chair beside the cot, his uniform crumpled and his wavy hair a mess.

"Al?" the boy moaned sleepily as he straightened up, rubbing his eyes in a childish manner. He would've looked adorable, if it weren't for the purple bags under his eyes or the way his skin was waxen and his usually rosy lips completely devoid of colour.

"Hey, Mattie," greeted America, unsure of what to do.

His voice was raspy, and his mouth and throat felt dry. And why was he with Canada when…

His eyes widened as the memories hit him. Washington. The Capitol in flames, then the President's Mansion. He had lost the battle, and England had claimed his price for the victory.

At the same time, Canada awakened fully.

"Al!" he gasped, jumping to his feet as the little colour left was drained from his face.

He put a knee on the cot and bent over his brother, but froze with his hands hovering over America's shoulders, unsure of what to do.

"Al, are you—" Canada stopped and lowered his head, chewing his lower lip.

America realized that he had tightened his fists over the blankets.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, forcing himself to loosen his hold.

Entire buildings of Washington, buildings he had been immensely proud of, were nothing but a heap of ashes.

Part of him wanted to snap at Canada to leave him alone, for he was one of those responsible – but he wasn't. Not really.

"I'm fine," America tried to repeat, but his words were warped into a small cough.

Canada jumped from the cot as if head been scalded, but a moment later he was back, a cup in his hands.

"Sorry, you must be horribly thirsty, I—"

America tore the cup from his brother's hold and drank its whole content in a big gulp, ignoring Canada's alarmed expression at his action.

"Alfred! You shouldn't—"

The cold water felt soothing against America's raw throat, relieving his papery mouth and tongue.

"Thanks. I needed that," he said, placing the empty cup on the nightstand.

Canada's eyes followed the movement of his hands before snapping back to America's face. He was wringing his hands.

"You really shouldn't be up!" he fretted, his eyes wide. "You need to—"

America sighed.

"Matthew, I'm fine," he said stiffly, rolling his eyes at his little brother's ridiculous overprotective tendencies. "Really, I am."

Canada looked about to protest, but America shot him a grin.

"Oh…" the younger nation muttered, lowering his head.

A heavy silence fell between them. America kept looking at his younger brother as he fidgeted with his hands. He wanted to say something, but his mind was empty, everything felt hollow. All he could focus on were the cities burning – York, and then Washington. Alfred wanted to be sick, and at the same time he wanted to talk to Matthew, but the ghosts of the flames hung heavy between them.

Nobody said anything.

Canada had his head bowed, and his hands were fidgeting – his fingers opening and closing, the nails running over the pale skin of his wrists.

Outside the tent, British soldiers were speaking. Somebody was yelling orders, somebody else answered. A horse neighed in the distance.

America realized that he had to be inside the British camp – England and Canada had most likely brought him there after he had passed out. Somehow, America expected them to leave him to rot on the ground, but now he realized how utterly ridiculous the notion was – for how angry England and Canada could be, they were still his brothers. They would have never done something like that to him. Just like he wouldn't have done it to them.

America suddenly realized that he didn't know how much time had passed and snapped his eyes back to Canada to ask him, but what he saw made his blood run cold.

Canada was still looking down, his hands fidgeting – his nails carving red paths on the tender skin of his wrists. He hadn't broken the skin yet, but America could tell he was close.

"Hey, stop that," he said softly, taking a hold of his brother's wrists and gently forcing them apart.

Canada raised his head, blinking in confusion, then blushed when he realized what he had been caught doing.

"Sorry," he muttered, lowering his head in shame. "I'm… I'm sorry."

America knew that he wasn't talking about his wrists.

 _'It's okay,'_ America wanted to say, because Matthew looked so little and fragile, so lost, his face pale and his lilac eyes wide. However, he couldn't bring himself to do it. For how much he wished he could just leave everything behind… it wasn't okay. He couldn't just ignore what had happened, the pain they both had had to endure.

"I'm sorry too," he said instead, far more quietly than he was used to.

Canada shook his head violently. When he raised his eyes, America could see the tears he was trying to suppress glistening at the corners.

"No, don't! This isn't okay, I—I hurt you, there was no need for it, we had already won and instead we burned down all the buildings, and—"

America interrupted Canada's rant by wrapping his arms around the trembling body, forcing him to sit on the edge of the cot.

"I did that too. I let my men burn York. Please, Mattie. Don't… don't blame yourself."

The body was stiff in his arms.

"How… how can you not be angry?" Canada whispered in a small voice, then swallowed. "I—I was so very angry…"

America sighed.

"So am I," he said truthfully, "But I also know that it was your duty. You could have done nothing to stop this, Mattie. It's just… We're nations." He found himself thinking of England's words. "We've got to do what we've got to do. Our personal feelings don't matter."

He didn't want to be angry anymore, or to wake up from nightmarish dreams in which he heard his little brother struggle to breathe as blood started filling his lungs. He didn't want to feel guilty anymore. Now that Canada had had his revenge, Alfred had hoped that things would just get back to normal… but he recognized how foolish and naïve he had been.

"Please don't blame yourself," he repeated, burying his head against his little brother's hair. This time, the smell was right – light and flowery, just as he remembered – and the texture soft.

"Al…" Canada was interrupted by a barely restrained sob.

America found himself wondering for how much time he had held back the tears.

"Come here," he muttered, tugging at the small body that was still sitting stiffly on the edge of the cot.

Canada stayed still for a moment before his resolution shattered, leaving him to crumble into America's waiting arms.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, wrapping his own trembling arms around America's frame as he rested his head against his brother's shoulder. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…"

America rocked gently back and forth as tears started falling on his shirt. He wished somebody had held him that way after York, so he wasn't going to let Canada go through the turmoil alone.

"It's going to be alright," he said, as much to as himself as to his little brother.

It _had_ t _o_ be all right. Maybe they could stop fighting, there were no more reasons for that. England and Canada had had their revenge, and he needed to focus on rebuilding. It was time for them to leave the grudges and bloodied memories of the war behind. In spite of his last loss, America was willing to do that. For the sake of his people, and his brothers.

Even if things would never be the same, he wanted to at least try to rekindle their bond.

Canada regained his composure earlier than America would have thought.

"What now?" he asked in a small voice, detaching himself from America's arms.

He looked still pale and dejected, and America was sure that he hadn't actually calmed down yet, but there was determination shining in his eyes.

"I don't know," America answered truthfully, "Am I a prisoner here? If not, I have to go back to my army."

"You're not a prisoner!" Canada was quick to reassure him, his eyes widening. "We just brought you here because you needed to recover! But…"

His expression faltered, a flicker of doubt passing through his eyes.

"Yeah, I suppose it's not up to you," America said lightly. "Where's Art—England, I mean?"

The name of his former caretaker brought a sour taste in his mouth. While he couldn't stay mad at Canada, the British Empire was a completely different matter. _He_ was the one responsible for everything. Both his and Canada's injuries. America felt his blood boil at the thought of the man's stony face, his hands were itching to close around the slender neck. England wouldn't be so cocky, then.

At the same time, Alfred's mind couldn't help but flash back to the image of Arthur's dark eyes, to the sorrow hidden in the green depths. When he had first rebelled against him, he had seen England only as a tyrannical ruler, his fight against him as a selfish attempt to keep hold of his power. Now… in the few years of his independence, Alfred had started to realize more and more how _complicated_ being a nation was. How little their personal will mattered over the needs of their people. York had been his last, harsh wake-up call. Arthur was good at hiding his true feelings, but Alfred couldn't help but wonder what he truly felt each time they had to hurt each other. If he had ever been as passionate about fighting as he had shown.

A part of Alfred wanted to mend the bridge between him and Arthur – but the other still felt resentful at his actions, hurt by the fact that England hadn't even bothered to keep an eye on the damage he had caused. Alfred didn't know what he wanted.

"He was summoned by his general, he left a note," answered Canada, tearing him away from his thoughts. "He was here until then, though. He stayed awake the whole time."

A strange feeling of warmth mixed with surprise blossomed in Alfred's chest. So Arthur _had_ stayed. It shouldn't have mattered that much, but somehow it did.

As if on cue, he heard the rustle of the fabric as the flaps of the tent were opened.

America tensed, his head snapping to the source of the noise, as Canada straightened beside him.

England's form emerged from the fabric.

He had changed his uniform from the last time America had seen him, this one was clean and only slightly creased, but aside from that, the man didn't look any better. If anything, he looked even more worn out. His hair was a limp mess, the pasty skin of his face marked by deep lines, and his eyes dull. There was no energy in his steps, he was almost dragging his feet, and his shoulders were slightly slumped.

As soon as he caught sight of America, however, England froze on the spot, his whole body tensing.

"You're awake," he said, sounding as if he couldn't fully believe his words.

"Yep."

America tried to smile, but the muscles of his face seemed frozen, and all he could manage was a grimace.

England blinked a few times.

"Are… are you alright?" he asked, taking a few, unsure steps in America's direction.

"As well as I can be." The words came out of America's mouth harsher than he had intended.

England recoiled, his eyes widening, but a moment later he regained control of himself.

"I'm glad," he said stiffly, his features unreadable.

America wanted to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he could get some sort of human expression from him. He was tired of fighting, he wanted to make things right again… but how could he do that if England didn't even try to apologize?

A heavy silence filled the tent. Beside him, America heard Canada hold his breath.

"So… how long was I out?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

It wasn't exactly what he had meant to ask, but America had never liked silence. It made him feel young and powerless, brought him to notice the glimmer of raw regret and pain that England couldn't completely hide from his eyes.

England's body relaxed slightly.

"Almost two days," he answered evenly, walking to an empty chair next to a bureau. "It's the 26th."

The man's movements were careful when he sat down, but his body looked heavy.

America nodded, not unsure of what to say. Why was it always so difficult to talk to England? He could see regret written in every line of the man's face. Why couldn't he just apologize, and let bygones be bygones?

"I should get back to my army," America found himself saying instead. "Where…"

"You can get back to Washington," answered England, "We left it after the storm. I'll get you a horse, and you can leave the camp. Nobody will stop you, most are occupied trying to repair our ships, and they won't recognize you as an American in civilian clothes."

At those words, America suddenly noticed that he wasn't wearing his ruined uniform anymore, but had been changed into a pair of simple green trousers and a white shirt. Common clothes, not very elaborated but the fabric felt of good quality. And they fit him surprisingly well – but England knew his measurements, after all. He had had clothes made for him numerous time before, and even if those memories felt like they belonged to a completely different life, it hadn't been that long ago, America hadn't grown up since the last time.

He wanted to thank England for the small courtesy, instead found himself nodding stiffly, unsure of how to behave in front of the wall of forced indifference posed by the older nation.

Much to America's surprise, Canada was the one who broke the silence.

"You can't just make him leave!" he blurted out. When the boy turned to him, America saw that his eyes were glimmering with determination. "He's injured, he needs to rest! He can't just—"

"But I'm fine, Mattie," America interrupted him, puzzled. "See?"

Ignoring his brother's spluttered protests, America placed his feet on the ground and stood up in a fluid motion, stretching his back. His sore muscles protested at the movement, but he felt steady on his feet.

Canada's words suddenly died down.

"Oh," he muttered, his eyes widening as they scanned over America's body, who answered with a grin. "Oh, yes. Of course you're fine."

His voice had an odd intonation, but America couldn't place it, nor could he understand what might have caused the hazy, far-away look in his little brother's eyes. He almost looked like he was reliving a memory.

"Hey, Mattie, what's—"

"You recovered quickly," England said unexpectedly, "I'm… I'm relieved to see that."

"Of course I did," America answered immediately, puzzled. "We are nations, we heal quickly… besides, I'm strong! I'm totally gonna kick your ass next time, so you'd better be prepared!"

He wondered whether England and Canada could hear how fake his enthusiasm sounded. Everything felt sort of disconnected, hollow.

"Of course," England repeated after him, almost in a whisper.

There was a strange, haunted look in his eyes, and his body was stiff. When America turned to Canada, the boy offered him a slight smile, but the features of his face were tight.

"Guys?" America asked tentatively.

He didn't know what was going on, and he didn't like it. The atmosphere inside the tent had suddenly turned heavy.

"Matthew didn't believe me when I told him you would recover quickly. Even I didn't think it would be _this_ quick…" England said tiredly. "But it's alright, he was merely worried."

Canada took a sharp intake of breath. For some reason, he looked angry at England's words.

"It hurt that much because it's your capital," the man went on, ignoring his colony, "And because it's your first time. But the damage was only to public buildings, so it's not that bad. And you _are_ strong. You'll recover fully in no time, and next time won't be this hard. You'll get used to it."

The words made America's blood run cold. He could tell that England had meant to reassure him, they were supposed to be comforting… but all his mind could focus on was the thoughtless certainty they had been uttered with. _'Next time'_. America didn't want to have a 'next time' of that. He had thought the nightmare was over, yet England had talked about it as if he had been making an innocent observation about the weather.

America suddenly found himself feeling terribly young as he wondered how many times England had seen his country devastated by the actions of other nations – how many times he had been injured and stepped on by those he was supposed to call friends, family. He wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

"There won't be a next time," he said stubbornly, locking eyes with England. "I won't allow it."

The man didn't answer, but his eyes said everything, shimmering with unspoken emotions. Pity, regret. Maybe even a small glint of envy. America was the one who diverted his gaze first, looking at Canada for support.

His little brother looked pale and tired, his face tense. Still worried.

"I'm _fine_ , Mattie," sighed America, "How many times do I have to tell you?"

 _Why_ couldn't he believe him? America knew that he was feeling guilty for burning Washington, but Canada had always been able to tell whether he was lying or not, so he should have realized that his words were sincere. Why, then? Was his guilt so bad, or…

 _Oh._

 _OH!_

America's eyes widened as he finally realized what Canada's hesitance to believe him implied. He unconsciously brought a hand to his mouth as his stomach plummeted.

"M—Mattie? How long did it take you to recover after York?"

America should have known. England himself had told him, that nightmarish morning, Canada was still a colony, and as such more vulnerable, slower to heal. And he had been so badly hurt, far worse than America…

His brother's features turned into a mask of stone.

"It's not it, Al," he said stubbornly, his eyes dark. "I'm just worried that you'll overexert yourself, you aren't completely healed yet, you won't recover if you push yourself too hard. And you _always_ do that."

Canada could be a good liar when he put his mind to it. Sometimes he even managed to fool England. But for how excellent a liar could be, he was still a liar. And at that moment, America _knew_ that his little brother was lying.

"Mattie…" he whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow, his stomach churning.

"Matthew, go to the stables and get a horse for Alfred," England's voice cut in unexpectedly.

Both his younger brothers turned towards him.

"But Mr England…" Canada tried to protest, but the man's expression was stern, his voice unwavering.

"Matthew. Do as I tell you. Go and get a horse for your brother."

Canada looked torn, his eyes wide on his bloodless face, his fists clenched. The British Empire's voice, however, left no space for bargaining.

The boy lowered his head and started edging to the entrance of the tent, his steps slow and reluctant. Just before stepping out, he cast a pleading gaze behind his shoulders.

"Please, Mr England…"

"Go."

America didn't utter a single sound until the flaps of the tent fluttered closed behind Canada's small frame.

"So?" he asked then, turning frantically towards England.

There was an only reason he could have sent Canada away: whatever he was about to tell him, it was _bad_.

"Are you really sure you want to know?" asked England, his eyes sharp.

America nodded stubbornly.

"I _need_ to know."

So he could understand. Mourn. And finally, get over that nightmare. But first, he needed to know _everything_.

A tired sigh seeped through England's lips as the man briefly closed his eyes, collecting himself. When he opened them again, they were so full of raw emotions that America almost couldn't bear to look at him.

"He was unconscious for three days. It took other ten days before he could get out of bed, and a month until he was fully healed."

The words hit America like a punch in the gut, stealing all the air from his lungs. His legs wavered, he collapsed on the edge of the cot to avoid falling down.

"A… a _month_?!" he gasped.

His head was spinning, the blood pounding in his ears as his wide eyes frantically searched England's face for a sign that he was lying. There was none, the man's features were drawn and heavy with grief, his bright eyes had a haunted look.

America wondered what he was thinking about, if he was still keeping something from him. He wondered how Arthur had felt those night at his little brother's bedside, powerless before his pain.

"A month," whispered England. "He's just a colony, Alfred. Not as quick to heal as we are, nor as strong. Everything affects him more than he would affect me or you. He was very badly injured, he had lost a lot of blood, and his lungs were damaged. A human would have died, or needed several months to recover if he survived in a stroke of luck."

America could only nod stiffly, not trusting his voice. This time, he did nothing to break the heavy silence that had enveloped them.

"You _do_ understand now, don't you?" England said in the end, softly, his voice laced with grief. "Why I had to let my men and Canada's soldiers burn your capital. I would have never wanted to hurt you, Alfred… but your men had to get the message loud and clear. Canada isn't yours to take, and any interference won't be tolerated."

The man took a deep breath, lowering his head.

"I'm sorry you had to go through this, Alfred. I'm really, terribly sorry. And I'm also aware that my words mean nothing: if I have to, I'll do this again."

America wanted very badly to deny England's words, to point out how barbarian and unneeded his actions had been. But… deep in his mind, in some sort of twisted logic, he _did_ understand. He wanted to deny it, he didn't like how powerless England's reasoning made him feel, but he couldn't ignore what he knew to be true.

At the same time, however, America couldn't completely agree with him.

"I… I won't do that again," he said, clenching his fists. His wavering voice gathered strength with each word. "I'll never, ever hurt Matthew again, I swear."

The smile England offered him didn't reach his eyes.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Alfred."

The man's eyes were dull, he looked frail and tired, defeated. The sight of the nation he had once looked up to so dejected made America's stomach twist.

"I'm not making any promise," he said resolutely, "I know that I can't force my people to do anything, you already told me. But you also told me that I can influence them, show them the way. And I'll do anything in my power to stop them from hurting Matthew again. We're _not_ powerless."

England looked surprised at his words, but clearly not convinced.

"You're young, Alfred," he said after a few moments of silence, shaking his head. "This seems nice, but it's not how it works."

 _'Yes, it is,'_ America wanted to retort, but he didn't want to start another argument with Arthur, either. The war was still too fresh and too raw.

"I don't want to fight anymore," he said instead. His voice came out strangely soft, almost childish, but he ignored it and went on. "There's no more point in this war. I have been chased away from Canada, and you have managed to humiliate me. Can't we just… stop?"

"It's not that easy," England retorted immediately, as pessimistic as ever. His furrowed brow, however, told America that he was considering his proposal. "But you're right. I've lost a lot of men in Europe, carrying out another war right now it's pointless. Of course, we can't just stop like that. But I'll talk to my generals."

America nodded.

"And I'll talk to mine."

"It won't be immediate," England had already started warning him, "There will probably be some more offensives in between. But everybody is tired of this war, I think we can manage."

"Don't sweat it," said America, jumping back to his feet. His sore muscles protested at the movement, but he ignored the discomfort. "I can take a few fights. And you'd better watch your back, because I'm gonna kick your ass this time."

England snorted.

"In your dreams."

He still looked exhausted, but his eyes weren't as empty as before, and his body seemed to have a little more energy when he stood up.

"Where…" America started saying, turning to the entrance of the tent, just as Canada stepped in.

The boy looked pale and tense, but after a quick glance at England and America, he seemed to relax slightly.

"The horse is outside," he said, "He's already saddled, and I've left you some water and something to eat. But you really—"

America stopped Canada by clamping a hand over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Mattie. But now I have to go, really. My people need me."

Canada looked about to protest, but bit his lower lip, nodding.

"Okay. You're right," he whispered softly.

"Take care," said America, "Both of you. You need to be at your best, or beating you won't be any fun, don't you think?"

Both Canada and England answered with a strained smile, but a smile nonetheless.

In a sudden impulse, Alfred bent down and pressed a swift kiss to Canada's forehead.

The boy's eyes widened comically, eliciting a small chuckle from America. As he straightened up, his eyes caught England's.

 _"Take care of him,"_ he mouthed.

England gave a minute nod in response.

 _'You don't have to tell me, you git,'_ America imagined him saying, _'I will.'_

America turned his back to his brothers and stepped out of the tent, feeling light and heavy at the same time.

He had believed his words when he had spoken to England, but as he neared Washington's ruins, his mind flashing back to the fires and Canada's injured body, he couldn't help but think that changing things wouldn't be as easy as he had made it sound. For how much Alfred wished it, there was no way to undo the damage that had been done.

* * *

Outraged whispers followed England wherever he went, seeping into his mind like a slow-acting poison.

"Barbarians."

"Savages."

"How could he have done something like that to such a young nation?" sighed theatrically France, "To say he claimed to care for him so much…"

"It's simply _horrifying_ ," whispered Spain, shaking his head. "I could never do something like that to Romano."

England's blood boiled with rage at their judgement.

Nobody spared a single word for the child England had held in his arms as he burned with fever and writhed in agony. Nobody gave a single thought to the days and nights he had spent at Canada's bedside, listening to the shallow breaths and praying they wouldn't stop. None of them knew how it had to felt to read fairy tales to the bedridden child, desperately attempting to avoid looking at his hollow eyes.

 _'Besides, It's not like you haven't done worse!'_ England wanted to scream.

But he couldn't, for there _was_ a kernel of truth in their words. No matter what his reasons had been, England had hurt America in a horrible way. Alfred. His little brother, his child.

Arthur longed to burst into tears and hold him to his chest, apologizing over and over.

But he was the British Empire. And the British Empire could show no weaknesses.

So he gritted his teeth and walked proudly, his back straight and his shoulders squared, as his heart mourned the two bright-eyed children who would play in front of his yard, lively and carefree.

 **(word count: 8,334)**

* * *

 **Notes : **

I apologize for taking so long. I had a very hard time writing this chapter, and I'm still not confident about it (I mean, I'm never confident when it comes to my works, but this time less than usual). I still decided to publish it, however, because the exams are getting closer, and between my internship and classes I don't think I'll have any more time to write until Christmas.

English isn't my first language, and I might have made mistakes or used Italian idioms and structures that sound awkward in English. Please tell me if you noticed something like that, because I will never realize it unless I'm told. I also might have used a mixture of British and American English, I can't really tell the difference.

Writing America in this situation was particularly difficult for me, I couldn't tell how he would react. We've seen in canon that he wanted to apologize to England after the Revolutionary War, and I see him as one who doesn't want to have grudges and tries to make the best out of everything, but I'm not sure if I've managed to convey it.

Please review and tell me what you thought about this! :)


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